Saturday, 10 May 2014

fpf?+12: a friday poem, risen from the dead and dripping rotten zombie-flesh

(written 20 March 2009)

I saw a blue crane by the side of the road
But when I got closer I saw
It wasn’t a crane
But a mangled up sign
Saying STOP or 100 or ---


Indeed. Here it is. I sent the last one in – um – last year? And it’s not that I’ve had nothing to complain about; as you may imagine I’ve found lots that makes me want to eat the skulls of my enemies – take Windows for example: You know you want to go and find the guy who decided that Windows needs to check that what you told it to do is what you really meant to tell it do, right? You also want to strap him to a stool, shine a 1000W bulb in his eyes and grind his toes into the floor with a pneumatic drill.
I’m not losing stuff and going unbalanced here am I? I’m expressing my frustration in a socially-appropriate manner? I’ve been out of touch a bit lately so I can’t tell this kind of thing so clearly any more… Anyhow – back to the funnies:

Gareth & I have started Black Square up, and we’re just a little bit fucking busy right now is why there’s been no Friday poem. I’m going to get a Coke.
OK, so I went to the fridge to get the Coke and I remembered – how could I have forgotten? The thing that’s mostly been completely fucking me off is the goddamn cats. Jeez. Us. Hands up who likes it when the cat wees in your crocs (even if you deny crocs)? Yes – it’s like a convention of people who have been strapped to a chair with a 1000W bulb shining in their eyes and are having their toes ground into the floor with a pneumatic drill. (They can’t raise their hands because their hands are strapped to the chair - yes?). They sleep in the sink, they make the most insanely ultra-mega-disgustingly smelly little craps in the kitty litter. Ugh. Anyhow – this isn’t a discussion so I’m not looking for advice or judgment on my attitude to my cats so just keep it to yourself OK? OK. So now we can move on. The kitty litter is next to the fridge so that’s why I remembered, because some hippie twat psychologist said smells prompts memory more than any of the other senses, more than even a picture from a happier time or a beautiful melody – which might be true is just so fucking boring.

And also, you might be thinking that the only reason I’m now trotting out poems that I thought of 2 months ago but didn’t get around to doing earlier is because it’s my birthday next week, but I’m just not that guy, you know. I’m just looking for friendship. And so I made a blues song, which Caitlin much admires because it’s about a guy and a girl, even if she a) doesn’t appreciate the depth of feeling and 2) doesn’t quite realize that she’s dumped him due to circumstance beyond his control/of his own doing. So, a song about thinking ‘bout my baby on a summer’s night when I can’t have her because she kicked me out because I was late:


Driving along on a summer’s day
Arm out the window
Radio on
Tapping my finger on the steering wheel
Off to see my baby on a summer’s day

Hitting 180 on the old highway
Policeman stopped me said – hey boy
What you try’n to prove, getting in your grove
I take you off to jail on a summer’s day

So I’m sitting in jail on a summer’s day
Thinking ‘bout my baby, what I’m gonna say
She’s gonna be real mad – hope she understands
I just couldn’t wait to see my baby-doll

Well they let me out at 7 o’clock
Made my way to my baby’s house
Knocked on the door, she opened up
Slammed it in my face and said the I’m no good

So I’m standing out by my baby’s place
Started to rain so I knocked again
Said “let me in, let me explain”
She turned out the light and sent me on my way

Driving along on a summer’s night
Arm out the window
Radio on
Tapping my finger on the steering wheel
Thinking ‘bout my baby on a summer’s night
Thinking ‘bout my baby on a summer’s night
Thinking ‘bout my baby on a summer’s night


Repeat after me: I want to be a zombie, just like,


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